The resonance of the gong still hummed in the air as Ma Rong charged forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the wooden platform. His mining-forged muscles surged ahead like a landslide, his scarred knuckles marked from shattering mountain rock, aimed to pulp Fu Heng's face into the arena floor.
The crowd's murmurs fell silent, replaced by the thunder of Ma Rong's footsteps. Fu Heng stood motionless, his stance relaxed, with his eyes half-lidded; but those who knew him recognized the sharp glint beneath his apparent laziness. Fu Heng exhaled and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms decorated with scars that told stories of knife fights in alleyways, harsh winters spent huddling for warmth, and the sting of betrayal.
"Let's get this over with," Fu Heng said gruffly.
Ma Rong's fist came like a boulder dislodged from a mountainside, aimed at crushing Fu Heng's skull. At the last moment, just a hair's breadth from impact, Fu Heng arched his torso like a willow branch in a storm. As he pivoted, Ma Rong's fist whistled past Fu Heng's ear, the force rippling through the air. Before Ma Rong could recover, Fu Heng hooked his foot behind Ma Rong's ankle. A gentle shove—more about precision than force—sent Ma Rong crashing face-first onto the platform. The crowd fell silent at the sound of the impact.
"Lucky shot!" Ma Rong roared, surging up with spit flying from his lips.
Fu Heng sighed. "Let's try this again."
Ma Rong adjusted his stance, launching a brutal sweep aimed at snapping Fu Heng's legs. But Fu Heng was already in motion, his body a whisper in the wind. He ducked under a haymaker, twisted past a knee strike, and—like a snake coiling—locked Ma Rong's wrist mid-swing. A sharp twist and a shift of his hips flipped Ma Rong onto his back.
The crowd gasped.
Ma Rong scrambled up, his face reddening. "Quit dancing, coward!"
Fu Heng's smirk was razor-thin. "Dancing? No." He beckoned with one hand. "This is a movement art, ever heard of one?" he asked with a faint smirk.
Ma Rong swung wildly, his strength untethered by thought. Fu Heng moved like water—dodging, redirecting, using the miner's own momentum against him. Six moves later, Fu Heng had Ma Rong's arm wrenched behind his back, the miner's face pressed into the wood, his breath coming in wheezes.
"Yield?" Fu Heng asked, his voice sweet as poisoned honey.
Ma Rong's free hand slapped the floor. The crowd erupted in excitement.
As Fu Heng released him, he leaned down and whispered just for Ma Rong's ears: "Muscle without thought is just dead weight." As Fu Heng stood, he dusted off his robes, his gaze flickering to the stands, where Zhao Gun sat with an unreadable expression.
"Useless if you don't know how to utilize your power," Fu Heng murmured, loud enough for Zhao Gun to hear.
The words hung heavily in the air, a palpable weight that pressed down on Ma Rong's chest. His eyes burned with intensity, a fire fueled by humiliation, but soon eclipsed by something darker—recognition. This wasn't merely a display of skill; it was a strategy carved into flesh, an embodiment of the lessons learned through pain and struggle.
***Three Years Earlier***
Lightning did not crackle the night Zhao Gun's bloodline awakened it screamed in a frantic symphony of power and chaos.
The ancestral shrine trembled as blue-white energy burst forth from his skin, searing the ancient stone walls with violent blackened scars. A wild Boar made of lightning with gaint tusk appeared. The elders, cloaked in their traditional garb, whispered in a cacophony of horror and reverence. "The Lightning Boar… the original bloodline of the Zhao. The mark of the butcher of the battlefield. A relic of the clan's warlord past."
His father, Zhao Tianwei, gripped his shoulders tightly, pride and desperation mingling in his fierce gaze. "You will restore our family," he said, his voice wavering with uncharacteristic emotion. "You must."
Days later, Zhao Gun stood in the dimly lit ancestral hall of the Zhao estate, the scent of sandalwood and ink wrapping around him like a shroud. Before him, his father meticulously traced the lineage scroll, calloused fingers halting at a name half-scratched out: Zhao Wulian.
"Your grandfather," Zhao Tianwei began, his voice gravelly, weighed down by the family's shame. "Banished from the Southern Xuan Kingdom's main Zhao clan for defying their edicts. We are the tainted branch. But you—" His grip tightened on Zhao Gun's shoulder, both a comfort and a chain. "You have awakened the Lightning Boar bloodline. The very one that made the Zhao Clan rise centuries ago."
Zhao Gun's jaw clenched, muscles taut with an anger he couldn't voice. He had heard this story before, the weight of legacy pressing on him like a mountain—an unspoken demand to redeem them all, to be the savior of a tarnished name.
His father's gaze flickered toward the courtyard, where Zhao Gun's younger brother, Zhao Ren, lounged in a marred state of laziness, laughter spilling forth too loudly for the solemnity of their lineage. The stark contrast of their paths gnawed at Zhao Gun's insides.
"And him?" Zhao Gun asked flatly, his voice taut as a drawn bow.
Zhao Tianwei's silence was an answer carved in stone, a resignation too painful to articulate.
As the months passed, Zhao Gun found himself the subject of praise from the family elders. Yet, their eyes held a glint of caution—a mix of reverence and fear swirling within. The Lightning Boar was a power to be feared, not respected, and his father demanded nothing less than perfection. "The Zhao name was built on this power," he would often remind him, "Do not bring shame to it."
Driven by his father's relentless expectations, Zhao Gun trained until his hands bled, until his meridians felt like they were aflame with exhaustion. Each drop of sweat became a testament to his ambition, yet no matter how strong he became, it was never enough. He was never smart enough, never fast enough, and the gnawing doubt whispered cruelly at the back of his mind.
At the age of fifteen, his father took him deeper into the ancestral estate than he had ever ventured before. They descended into the heart of the Zhao Family prison—an echoing abyss that housed the captured spies who had betrayed their clan. The air was thick with despair, a palpable reminder of the consequences of defiance.
"This is what happens when one betrays or defies our Zhao Family," Zhao Tianwei said, his voice cold and unyielding as he handed Zhao Gun a dagger, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light. "You must understand that power comes with responsibility, and the Lightning Boar demands loyalty. Are you ready to bear this burden?"
"Here, kill that man in front of you," he said. Hearing this, Zhao Gun trembled; the sight was already traumatizing, but his father's words struck him like lightning, making him freeze in place. His voice was icy cold, so chilling that it felt as if it penetrated his bones.
"Do it now! The Zhao Clan has no place for the faint of heart," Zhao Tianwei commanded. He then plunged the dagger into the man's heart, blood still on his hands as his father said, "Good job. You are now a true Zhao."
It was then, standing at the precipice of destiny, that Zhao Gun recognized the true darkness that lay within the family legacy—a call to arms, a call to blood, and a call to become the man the clan desperately needed. The path before him would not be easy, but the weight of expectation was now as much a part of him as the bloodline coursing through his veins.
From that day, Zhao Gun began to sever his ties with the world, withdrawing into silence and solitude, until their father decided to send him and his brother to the Azure Lotus sect. It was there that they first encountered Fu Heng, the day he joined the sect, and Chi Wei, who would play as significant a role in their lives as their own blood. Chi Qide, ever the opportunist, arranged for Zhao Ren to befriend Zhao Gun, hoping to use their bond to his advantage.
And then there was Zhao Ren.
Zhao Ren lingered like a specter within the Zhao household—constantly present yet achingly unseen, a swirling disappointment cloaked in silk robes. While Zhao Gun endured grueling training that left his hands raw and bleeding, Zhao Ren fled into the world of dice and drink. Where Zhao Gun devoted himself to studying ancient battle treatises, Zhao Ren occupied his mind with the names of courtesans, their laughter echoing like fleeting phantoms through his mind.
That night, under the pallid glow of the moon, Zhao Gun found his brother in the gardens, drunkenly weaving poetry from his lips, rich with longing and betrayal.
"Pathetic," Zhao Gun muttered, his disdain slicing through the night air.
Zhao Ren turned, a manic grin plastered across his face, wine pooling dangerously on his sleeves. "Ah, the perfect heir graces me with his presence! Come to scold me again?"
"You're squandering your life," Zhao Gun snapped, unable to mask the hurt buried deep within.
"And you're wasting yours pursuing the approval of a father who doesn't even care," Zhao Ren shot back, venom dripping from his words. "Face it, brother. To him, you are nothing but a tool—a means to claw back into the main clan's favor."
In a rush of anger, Zhao Gun's fist struck the stone pillar beside Zhao Ren's head, leaving cracks like the fractures in their hearts. "I am more than that."
Zhao Ren didn't flinch, his expression a mix of sadness and defiance. "Prove it."
"At least I don't waste my days chasing the affections of women who would say anything for coin," Zhao Gun said, anger lacing his voice, but beneath it was a simmering current of heartbreak.
A few weeks prior, their family had been thrust into chaos. Zhao Ren had been caught in the back rooms of the Red Fairy Pavilion, his robes tangled with a woman whose nimble fingers concealed a dagger. She wasn't merely a courtesan; she was a spy from the rival Ling Clan, armed with secrets that could shatter their family. When the guards stormed in, she held a blade to his throat—a silent promise of betrayal and a scroll of the Zhao's darkest secrets hidden in her sash.
"Pathetic," Zhao Tianwei had spat as the guards dragged Zhao Ren home like a puppet gone awry. "You disgrace our family and our Zhao blood."
All Zhao Ren could do was laugh—a bitter, hollow sound. "What family? You only have one son."
Zhao Gun, ever the dutiful heir, said nothing. But later, that night, he slipped into their shared courtyard, quietly tossing a bottle of bruise salve into his brother's room.
"You here to lecture me again?" Zhao Ren asked, a wry twist to his lips, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"I came to ask why," Zhao Gun replied softly, caught between frustration and a depth of concern.
Zhao Ren's smile faltered, revealing a chasm of despair. "Because she listened. Because when she lied, it was for me, not for Father's empty approval."
Silence enveloped them, thick and heavy, dimming the bond they once shared. Zhao Gun turned away, unable to articulate the love and pain swelling within him. The ache of brotherhood mixed with shame, a wound that would not mend.
The sun had barely broken over the horizon when Zhao Gun made his way to the Azure Lotus Sect's training grounds, his heart heavy with urgency.
"You're late," Fu Heng called out, a teasing grin creasing his face as he spun a dagger on his fingertip.
Zhao Gun could only grumble in reply, but his frustration fell away as he realized the weight of his words. "I need your help."
The playful glint in Fu Heng's eyes dimmed. For as long as he had known Zhao Gun—stubborn and fiercely independent—this was a significant request. "What do you need help with?" he asked, curiosity piqued.
"My brother," Zhao Gun admitted, his voice cracking with barely-contained emotion. "He's... slipping through my fingers. I don't know how to pull him back."
Fu Heng sheathed his dagger, the jest in his tone replaced by something more serious. "You're asking me? To that little piece of shit that I got into it with all those years ago"
"The same gutter rat he fought against years ago?"
"Cut the theatrics. You see things clearly when others cannot," Zhao Gun shot back, his gaze steady. "Please, I need you."
The word lingered in the air, delicate and desperate.
Fu Heng sighed, relenting. "All right, but we do this my way."
They found Zhao Ren in a dimly lit tavern in Blossom City, coins glinting on the gambling table like stars waiting to be grabbed. Fu Heng slid into the seat across from him, a cocky grin plastered on his face.
"Double or nothing," he said, flicking a gold note between his fingers, the challenge dancing in his eyes.
Zhao Ren looked him up and down, a sneer twisting his lips. "You're that sect's charity case, aren't you?"
"Yep. And you're the Zhao family's disgrace." Fu Heng leaned closer, his grin wide. "Guess we're both stuck in our stories, huh?"
For a brief moment, anger flashed across Zhao Ren's face, but it quickly dissolved into something like relief. Finally, someone saw him. They played, and one by one, Zhao Ren's chips flew away from him. "Cheat!" he yelled, slamming his fists on the table.
Fu Heng smirked, leaning in with a swagger. "Or maybe you just can't grasp the game. Like you can't grasp anything else in life." Zhao Ren lunged at him in a fit of fury. Fu Heng sidestepped, effortlessly pinning him with a lock reminiscent of the one he once used on Ma Rong.
"Your brother sent me," Fu Heng whispered, his tone low and serious. "He may not say it, but he cares. You're breaking his heart, you know."
Zhao Ren froze, caught off guard. Then, he erupted in bitter laughter. "Since when does Zhao Gun have a heart?"
"Since always," Fu Heng countered. "You just stopped looking."
Zhao Ren scoffed, his sarcasm biting. "How could someone like you possibly understand him? Everyone expects greatness from him while I'm just... invisible."
" You, someone that no one expects anything of, would never understand your brother, whom everyone expects everything from." Fu Heng said.
"Your eyes are useless when your mind is blind," Fu Heng said, turning to leave him in the tavern, the words echoing behind him.
The night before the competition, Fu Heng discovered Zhao Gun in the training yard, his knuckles split and raw from pounding a stone pillar. Rage danced behind his eyes, dangerously close to spilling over.
"Your control's fading," Fu Heng observed, stepping forward. "Stop wrestling with the rage. Aim it."
Zhao Gun snarled, "I don't need your—"
Fu Heng flicked a pebble at his forehead, interrupting him. "You're overthinking it. Watch how I execute this fist art—no wasted motion."
Zhao Gun stilled, his usual bravado faltering as he followed Fu Heng's movements. For the first time, he noticed the way Fu Heng fought—not just with skill, but with a plan and purpose. There was an elegance in his chaos, a balance in his power, eerily reminiscent of Long Huang but with a devilish twist.
After the demonstration, Zhao Gun approached. "Your technique… It's unorthodox, almost like Long Huang's but sneakier."
Fu Heng wiped sweat from his brow, grinning with satisfaction. "It's not just about the moves. It's about knowing how to read the moment." The two spoke a while longer, a bridge forming between them—until Fu Heng left the yard, leaving Zhao Gun with a spark of clarity.
Days rolled by, and as Zhao Ren stood at the edge of the Martial Competition, a mix of emotions stirred within him. He watched his brother spar with ferocity. For the first time in years, he witnessed the flicker of longing in Zhao Gun's eyes, searching the stands for him.